


Hear Me

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crying, Episode: s05e04 The End, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: Dean tries to give himself what he needs.





	Hear Me

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: mentions of past prostitution, torture in Hell, and heavily implied depression. Pinch hit for Spring Fling 2017.

“Hey,” Dean says, before him-in-five-years can get on his boots and walk out the door, off to fuck Risa or Jane, or maybe one of the stoned women Cas was so fond of. “Don’t.”

His older self turns around, eyebrows raised. Dean holds out a glass of whiskey, the good stuff. The kind he likes best out of all the cheap spirits his future self has hoarded. He’s operating under the assumption that even though the world might’ve burned beyond recognition, his taste in alcohol can’t have changed that much.

His instincts seem to have been right. Future-him steps away from the door and takes the glass. Glances at it, then shrugs, raises it, and swallows. He thumps the empty container back down on the table and stares at Dean, who meets his gaze head-on. He’s looked at people that way so many times. A cocky mixture of frustration, demand, and impatience. _You gonna tell me why you’re wasting my time?_

It’s disconcerting. Isn’t much about this situation that isn’t disconcerting, really. And that definitely ain’t a strong enough word for what he’s about to do, to give himself.

He knows what he needs. And he knows that this version of himself needs it too, more than he does. Because this future-self is too far gone to feel any desire except for the physical. 

Dean’s not there yet. He’s far enough gone to never be able to admit aloud to what he so desperately wants. He’s been that far gone since the moment he stopped being a kid. 

But unlike the him of this time, he knows what he wants. Needs. Is there a difference, at the end of the day at the end of the world? Does it matter?

Before he can get caught up in existential questions that serve no purpose beyond letting him be a fucking coward, he swallows down his own glass, steps forward, and kisses himself.

Part of him expects to get punched, knows the burning anger his future self bears towards him – it’s the same anger he feels whenever he looks back on all his past fuckups. He doesn’t even blame him, not really.

But part of him knows better. Knows himself. Has felt this coming since the moment he woke up handcuffed and met his own eyes.

When he steps back, his future self is silent, watching. Dean grabs his wrist, feels with his own fingers his own blood, thrumming through his own veins.

Wordlessly, he tugs his future self to the bed. He almost expects a protest, expects this hardened man to deny himself the way that Dean has always denied any comforts that don’t come in a bottle. 

He doesn’t get one. He shoves himself down on the bed and straddles him, kisses him again, twin stubble scraping together.

“You’ve done good,” he says when he pulls away. “All these people in camp, they’d be dead without you.”

His other self rolls his eyes and starts to rise up. Dean pins his shoulders down, though he’s not sure who’d come out on top if this lean, ruthless version of him really wanted to get up.

“Far as I can recall, I was never much of a talker during sex. Beyond the usual ‘fuck yeahs,’ and ‘oh, god, you’re so tight.’ Guess I’ve forgotten most of the past.”

“Either be quiet or I make you shut it.” He rotates his hips as he speaks, feeling him – both versions of him – hardening. 

“I been around thirty years, and I’ve never heard the things I need to hear. Somehow, I don’t feel like the past five years have been so kind to you that that’s changed.” He leans in and kisses his neck, sucking a bruise right over his jugular. He always loved doing that, loved leaving the people he slept with a reminder that he was real, even if he slipped out before they could wake up. 

Moving his way up his neck, he murmurs into his ear, “Dean. Hey. You got this. Tomorrow you go in, you kill the devil, you save all these people. After tomorrow, you can rest. It’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I do.” He unzips the jacket his other self had put on when he was preparing to go out and hookup, and slips it off. He lifts up the t-shirt below, tracing new scars that cross his ribs and belly. “I know a lot. I know how part of the reason you like fucking so much is ‘cause you’re good at it.”

“Damn right I am.” Future-Dean ruts against Dean’s erection, and damn if he really isn’t a cocky bastard. 

“The people you fuck, or the people who fuck you – they always tell you that, don’t they? Tell you how big you are. Or how tight. How you got sweet, cock-sucking lips and you sure know how to use them, don’t you, sugar?” He runs his fingernails up and down his sides, admiring, in a narcissistic way, how firm his muscles are. Guess most burger joints didn’t make it through the apocalypse. 

“That was one of the best things ‘bout sucking dick for money. Guys always told you pretty you were. And you kinda liked it, didn’t you? Even better than the panties.”

As he says the words, he grabs his crotch and squeezes. His other self spits out a few choice swears. Dean just grins.

“But it wasn’t enough.”

He pins his wrists above his head and looks into his own eyes. Wariness. Maybe a bit of anger, and he can’t blame himself – he never did like being peeled apart, the rare few times that someone bothered. Mostly, though, there’s arousal. And a hint of something Dean thinks might be desperation, or maybe vulnerability. He can’t be sure. He isn’t used to seeing that on himself.

His nipples are hard and hot as he teases them with his free hand. “You’re strong. Fuck, you’re brave. Probably braver than I could be. I get back to my time, the first thing I’m gonna do is get blackout drunk, cause I can’t deal with what’s coming. But you dealt with it, and you’re still here. You got any idea how incredible that is?”

“Shut up,” he grits out, letting out a harsh gasp when Dean scrapes a nail over his nipple. “Fuck you.”

“I know.” He rolls his hips again. Probably they’re both desperate for more friction, but it can wait. He sucks several bruises into his skin before he goes on.

“Look at you. Everything the world’s thrown at you. You grew up when you were four years old. You didn’t get a childhood. You got fire and guns, and _pain_.” He punctuates the last word with a sharp, bruising kiss right beneath his ribcage that makes the man below him snarl and thrust up, up, frantically rubbing off against Dean’s hard-on. “And here you are. Alive and kicking at the end of the world.”

He frees his wrists, bringing both hands up to cup his face and kiss him slowly, steadily, on the lips. “You’re good, Dean. You’re enough.”

His future self squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I got a pretty good idea.” He plants quick kisses all over the smooth plane of his stomach, loving the hard muscle underneath. “I can guess you blame yourself for all this.”

“And you don’t? We broke in Hell. Fucking cowards. Thirty years of hurting and we snapped like the little bitch we are. And that’s why we’re here now. Because we couldn’t stand a bit of pain.”

It really does sting to hear it voiced so openly, all the things he’s let fester deep inside since coming back. But he pushes away his own pain for the moment. It doesn’t matter. What he’s doing right now, he’s doing it for him, and he’s also doing it for himself. He’s always been better at forgiving others. Maybe doing this can help him change that, bridge the gap between what he lets those around him get away with, and what little he excuses in himself.

“It wasn’t ‘a bit of pain.’ Each second was a year. Each year was forever. It was burning and tearing and ripping and breaking, and the only reason Dad made it so long was because he broke a long time ago. He forgot what it was like to live the moment Mom died.”

He kisses himself before he can object. For a brief moment, he opens his eyes, and Dean sees the wetness and the redness. Something inside him aches.

“You’ve made it this far. You’re gonna make it further. I know you are.” By this point, they’re both frantically thrusting their hips up against each other, all hardness and heat. “Tomorrow, you kill the devil and you set Sam free. And when Zachariah sends me back, you know what? I’ll figure out a way to stop this. I won’t let things come this far.”

Hands scrape down Dean’s back, fingernails leaving deep scratches, just the way he likes it. He kisses Dean’s neck, bites at his earlobe, runs his hands up and down his torso, all the things he knows turns him on. All the things he never asks for.

“I’ll protect you. You don’t have to do it all. I’m here for you.”

He comes with a gasp, and feeling his own release soaking through two layers of pants is enough to push Dean over the edge. He collapses on top of himself, pressing his head into his shoulder, hardly aware of the things he’s mumbling. “You matter, you’ve made it, you’ve got it, I got you. It’s okay. It’s gonna be fine.”

For just a moment, strong arms wrap around him. He closes his eyes, returning the embrace as best he can. His desire to be held is maybe buried even deeper than what he just gave himself.

And then, with a grunt, his other self shoves him off and onto the floor. He lands hard on his shoulder, blunt pain slamming up his arm. It hurts. He’s had worse.

Dean doesn’t bother getting up. He watches from the floor as this future version of himself stands, angrily wiping a hand across his face. In a smooth movement, his pants and boxers are on the ground, and then they’ve been replaced with clean pairs. He yanks on his boots, not even bothering to tie them, and storms out of the cabin. He slams the door so hard the shelves rattle. Off to fuck Risa, then. Or Jane. Or anyone else that knows how to shut up and enjoy a good lay.

Dean stands, not bothering to take off his clothes. Not like he has anything else to wear, and he doesn’t feel like his future-self would be cool with him stealing at the moment. He picks up the bottle of whiskey and drinks straight out of it, doing his best to ignore his bitter disappointment.

It’s not like he thought this would end any differently. After all, he knows himself better than anyone else.


End file.
